


Overshoot

by Inaudible (HankTalking)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Cissexism, Coming Out, Everybody Lives, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Implied Sexual Content, Mage Hawke (Dragon Age), Nonbinary Hawke (Dragon Age), Purple Hawke (Dragon Age), Qunari Culture and Customs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:46:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22520446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HankTalking/pseuds/Inaudible
Summary: some scenes from the life of hawke. contains casual cissexism, including from friends and from a partner, but no violent transphobia.
Relationships: Hawke/Isabela
Kudos: 4





	Overshoot

Miriam knows before anyone else, before even you. She takes you to the woods outside Lothering one evening, shows you the loose soil where elfroot likes to germinate and how to keep your eye out for the gentle curl of stem. It’s a favor to your parents. Practically a blessing. Mother is still sweaty and her hair a mess and the babes do nothing but cry—out of the house, you’re one less thing for them to make worried faces over.

You hope Mother’s okay. Father told you that all the screaming was over now and everyone was happy and healthy, but it was hard to believe when you laid in your bed, blankets to your chin, and pretended nothing was wrong. Certainly whatever had hurt that much couldn’t be _good_.

“Are you excited?” Miriam asks you, sweeping aside a fern. “A new brother and sister both.”

You nod. You find twins _very_ exciting, more exciting than just one babe, and you tell Miriam as much.

“The Chasind have stories about women lucky enough to be born with twins,” she says. “They say that it is one soul, split into two bodies, man and woman.”

“That sounds like fun,” you say in that way without thinking only children can do, where the tongue moves faster than the mind and tells truths the heart doesn’t know. “I bet if my soul was broken up I could do anything I wanted.”

She looks down at you as you tug a root free and lay it gentle in the basket. Her pursed lips wantw to say that it’s just stories, that even if they weren’t, that is not what a soul split in twain would be like. But she does not, instead takes one of your hands and sinks it further in the dirt.

“You must pull _all_ of it out, child. The root is the most important part, you mustn’t forget.”

* * *

“And he’ll let us stay-” Merrill cut herself off. “Oh I’m sorry, I did it again didn’t I?”

You cringe over your drink. “It’s fine Merrill,” you assure her, not wanting to draw it out.

“I keep doing it, I’m so sorry Hawke,” she titters, genuinely distressed. “It’s just it takes some getting used to and- oh now I’m making excuses. You must hate me. I would hate me.” She folds in on herself so sadlike that you sputter to fix it.

“It’s really alright,” you insist. “I could never hate you.”

Because what sort of monster would you be if you made _Merrill_ feel bad? This isn’t a feeling you’re used to, that moment mid conversation where you wonder if you should interrupt, should correct. There’s a cavity in your chest, a gap where you’re always so sure of what you’re going to say next that when the rare moment arises where you can’t, you’re left plunging one foot off the chasm.

Varric comes to your rescue.

“I think we deserve a toast,” he says, and you should remember to thank the Maker every day for Varric Tethras. (Well, maybe not every day. He _is_ partially responsible for getting you all trapped in the Deep Roads last year.) With the topic skillfully redirected, he declares, “to real estate!”

“To real estate!” you echo, a beat ahead of everyone else.

“That is,” Varric adds with a wink, “assuming they don’t leave us for the company of some new noble neighbors.”

You make an exaggerated noise of disgust, and place the back your hand against your forehead. “Maker I would _never_. Do you know my Mother has been trying to set me up with Fifi de Launcet? I would sooner rip off both my ears.”

“Is that so you wouldn’t look good enough for the wedding?” Merrill frowns.

Anders rolls his eyes. “No, it’s so,” there’s a hitch, a reordering of thoughts as he shoves the words out his teeth, “they won’t have to listen to her anymore.”

You drink and pretend you didn’t hear the pause. The effort of his trying shouldn’t annoy you. You’re a bad friend if it annoys you.

As easily as Fenris and Varric have taken to the change since you’ve asked, the cracks show elsewhere. Whether it’s Anders’ hesitation or Aveline’s overcompensation, it’s a reminder that things aren’t perfect, that this is not the way you wanted them to go. Sebastian has avoided addressing entirely, except to your face.

And Isabela? Well Isabela’s not here at all.

* * *

Four is the magic number, you think. Two, and you’re an easy target. Four, and you’re too _lucrative_ of a target for any robber with eyes between their ears. But three? The three of you pass down the Wounded Coast with not a bandit in sight, a pleasant contrast to whenever you take the party out adventuring and you can’t sneeze without tripping over highwaymen.

“Ashaad?” you ask.

The Qunari turns to you, as does Saemus. They are a quiet pair, but they _do_ talk, though Saemus more than you and Ashaad combined.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” you begin. As casually as you can, as though the thought hasn’t been eating you inside since last you met. As though you haven’t spent each morning staring into the water basin in Gamlen’s home braiding and re-braiding your hair in hopes that you’ll see something different. “Do you remember the other day when were telling us about Aqun-Athlok?”

The other day when you had to shut up just to keep your feet moving. Usually your days with them aren’t intensive: Ashaad charts, Saemus catalogues the interesting plants he finds, and you keep company in return for theirs. But still, you could barely keep your head on straight after your conversation, and expended all your effort not to show it.

Ashaad blinks.

“I was just wondering.” Prattle, that’s all you ever do Hawke. “Does that also stop halfway? Are their people who shoot for the other side of the fense and fall flat on their face?”

Saemus is looking at you like you’ve just posed a rather interesting hypothetical, a nugget of fat he can chew on while the day draws in. But is not his face you’re looking for answers in, but Ashaad’s. It is as unmoved as always, but his eyes bore down at you, bullying in their blankness.

At first you think you’ve balls’d it up—Ashaad generally doesn’t take well to metaphor—but then he speaks. “The Qun holds that there are three pillars. Not in all things, but in many.”

“Er…” you say. “That’s the three parts of your government, right?” That was part of your introductory course to Qunari theology, your first lesson on the job. Ashaad had told you of his, and by extension, the Arishok’s role in the Qunari as the three of you had skirted around a Tal-Vashoth camp.

He shakes his head. “It is more than that. These come because, in all things, in people and in collections of people, there is the mind, body, and soul.”

You are leaning too far on your staff but you can’t help it. The end crushes an innocent seedling into the sand.

“The Arishok is the He, the body,” Ashaad goes on. “The Arigena is the She, the mind. And the Ariqun, the priest, the eyes through which we see, is the soul.”

“And they can either be male or female?” you guess safely, but Ashaad shakes his head.

“No. The Ariqun requires there be balance. No one pillar can rise above the others, no leader must side with one against another. The Ariqun stands apart.”

Your heart is beating fast. “So whoever the Ariqun is before…everyone just acknowledges them as…” You don’t have a word for it. “… _Not_?”

That, finally, seems to be what Ashaad wishes you to understand. “Yes. They and Tellsamit, who prevent Dangerous Actions. They are recognized as such.”

“Fascinating,” Saemus remarks conversationally, oblivious to the sound of blood in your ears. _How lucky. Learn something new every day._ But while he’s thinking that, your fists clench around your staff and your party stops looking over the sea’s sunrise. Saemus notices your distress. “Is that how you want to be thought of, Hawke?”

You jump so violently you nearly trip off the cliff’s edge to your doom. But all Saemus does it look at you with tilted head, and you relent with a shaking breath. “Am I really that obvious?”

He blinks. “How do you mean?”

Right. Snark works about as well on Saemus as it does Ashaad. “Nothing.” You shake your head. “I just feel…”

“Relieved? You look relieved.”

“Relief doesn’t even begin to cover it.” Your mouth feels like sand. Your legs feel like wood. You still think you could run to Par Vollen and back.

“Well we could do that for you if that makes you feel better,” Saemus says, and you give him a quizzical look. “The, what was it again? ‘Acknowledgment’? Seems easy enough. Would that be alright, Ashaad?”

Saemus looks at him, and you wonder if that would even work, to part the concept from the Qun. But Ashaad gazes down at the both of you, maintains his frown, and gives a little nod. “It will be done.”

You hope you don’t run into trouble on your way back to the city. If you try to cast a spell, you may just melt into a puddle of Hawke-flavored sludge.

* * *

“Someone's excited,” she says, and you try not to choke on your tongue. 

She’s gorgeous, dark hair everywhere, piles of it untamed around her shoulders and the scent of her overpowers you. In a different time or a different place you could fool yourself into thinking she smells like the sea, like salt, like tides, but now you can’t keep yourself from the raw truth, which is that she smells like rum and perspiration.

She cups a hand on your crotch and says, “let’s get him out of there, shall we?”

On that you want to protest. To put all your thoughts into sentences and figure out why nothing has been _right_ since your time on the coast, but the words won’t come. Instead you kiss her, and let her pull of your tunic.

Later, when sweat is cool and she’s sliding her fingers through your hair, long strands caught in unkempt nails, you say, “Isabela, I think I have something.”

“Have something?” she asks idly. “I do hope you don’t mean the clap.”

“No! No.” Already a _not what you meant_ , but you go on. “I think I would be more confident if...Isabela I don’t think I’m really a man.”

“Oh don’t be bashful Hawke,” she laughs. “I think you’ve just proved you’re more than man enough.”

“That’s not…” Why can’t you just say it? And why does everything _she_ say make you feel so much worse? “What I’ve been thinking is that...Well I’ve been talking with Ashaad. You know, Saemus’s Qunari friend?”

There’s a tightening of the fingers at her scalp, and you know there is that steel flash in her eyes whenever you mention anything Qunari.

You press on, ignoring best you can. “They have this concept of...people who aren’t men or women. And ever since I’ve learned about it I can’t get it out of my head.” You don’t even take time to revel, to soak in the victory of finally saying it aloud. “And I wanted to tell you first, because I have to tell someone, don’t I?”

She’s pushed herself from you, so slightly, so imperceptibly. It feels a moment of tripping backwards down the stairs. “So...what? You want to start dressing in women’s clothes?”

“No-” You hesitate. “I don’t think so. It’s not just a...bedroom thing.”

“Then why are you telling me?” It’s not an accusation, it’s not an anything. It’s a statement that shows she genuinely doesn’t understand why you would care at all.

“I…” you struggle. Why, why are you struggling? Are you so reluctant to let go? “I don’t know. I thought it would be...validating?”

She looks unimpressed. Or perhaps just confused. “I’m not sure what you want from me here,” she admits.

“...I suppose I don’t either,” you lie.

She shrugs. The peaceful air in the room is broken now, relaxed post-coital bliss gone, nothing now but the oppressive air akin to an uncomfortable family dinner. She senses it too, and grabs her boots. As you watch her go, you realize you just buried something. Part of you wishes you hadn’t, hadn’t let the coattails of a connection slip from your grasp. The rest of you chides that part. After all, were you really that happy to start?

* * *

The two of you wander about a lot when you’re not with Meeran. It feels empty without Bethany; you were always together, you keeping them out of trouble if anyone were to ask. (If anyone were to ask _you_ that is. If they asked Father, he’d say you were always getting them _in_.) It isn’t the same in the Free Marches. Not the same, but not all bad, either.

“It’s nice being called Serah, don’t you think?” you mention idly.

“What are you on about?” Carver says. He found a dead spider on his breakfast this morning, probably the distant cousin of the one you found in your bedroll. He’s taking his discovery harder than you yours.

“It’s not the same as being just called ‘lad’ or ‘you there boy’.” You scuff your boot on a loose stone. You wonder if anyone would miss it if you pocketed it. If you did that enough times, there might be some resale value.

Carver scoffs. Though not at your get rich quick scheme, although he’d probably scoff at that too. “It’s all airs they’re putting on,” he complains. “The other day someone called me _Messare_.”

“Leave it to you to complain about getting admirers.”

“He was begging for his life,” he snarls. “Doesn’t count.”

You reach down and slide the bit of sandy cobble into your robes. Got to start somewhere. A few streets later and you say, “We should all start saying it. Could be the newest trend back in Fereldan. Like how earrings with dried pork pinned through them was all the rage for a while.”

“Are you still on about that?” Carver looks over at you.

“You have to admit, it’s a lot more dashing that ‘Lord n Lady’.”

“Since when has anyone ever called you Lord?”

To that, you have no answer. You’re not even sure what you’re arguing for at this point, you’ve lost your tangent and you don’t have a good record of getting them back. So you let the feeling go, and instead concentrate on the growing weight in the lining of your robe.

* * *

You write a letter to Carver, pen making neat marks as the words bleed together. Before you reach the end, you grab it with one hand and scrunch it into a wad, tossing it into the cook fire. You miss, and have to stand up to go shove it in with your toe.

The next two end up the same. You don’t try to talk to Mother.

* * *

Three, you think as you lie sideways in the sandy soil, is not nearly enough.

Your cheek is pressed to the dirt, sand sticking to your eyelashes, grit seeping in where it shouldn't. Green shoots surround your vision, the stems of elfroot just peeking their heads through to check and see if it’s really spring. There’s shouting above you and a ring of blood below you and. Oh dear. That’s _your_ blood, isn’t it? Expanding lazily outward to blot out the pricks of green.

“Ginnis, wait,” a rough voice calls. “I recognize that one. Noble, might get somthin’ for ‘im too.”

The shadow above you passes, and you realize you’re ‘that one’. Hm. You’ve been called worse. You blacked out briefly—a sword, a sword went through your _bloody_ back—but now that you’re conscious you have no excuse not to try and avoid dying. They haven’t killed you yet, which is good, and you move your head to try and see how many there are.

(Too many, it turns out.)

Ginnis has Saemus by the collar—he’s struggling, shouting at her in Qunlat right up until she brings her free hand across his face. There’s the distinctive sound of bone splintering, and she drops his limp form. 

Magic, you think. Magic would help right about now. Cautiously, you drag your hand underneath you, pressing against your punctured abdomen, hiding the stray light beneath your robe. You try to summon more magic to close the wound entirely, but darkness creeps at the edges of your vision, and you have to stop and blink back the unconsciousness. You’ve stemmed the flow of blood, but what now? And where the _hell_ is you staff? Your eyes wander, and it’s in your hazy game of I Spy that you finally notice Ashaad.

He’s on his back, eyes closed, face pointed unseeing at the sky. You feel an immediate plummet in your gut, shock threatening to send you back to your nice sand-nap, and you force down a wave of that climbs your throat. There is blood splattering his grey skin but maybe-

You make up your mind. Cautiously, you draw your hand out from underneath you and, inch by inch, drag yourself to the unconscious Qunari, doing your best not to alert your assailants. Gravel forms under your fingernails, an impossibly slow crawl when you can literally see his life dripping out of him, but you make, catching sight of a wound far worse than yours. Deep: a sword had tried to part his head from his neck, but the blow got more of his shoulder than it had meant to. Still the gash is bad, and you think he has minutes at most.

If he’s alive at all. Your hand makes its way to the severed tendon, disappearing in a maze of blood. But there: a heartbeat, however faint. If you could slow your own blood loss, you can surely do the same for him.

In the center of the clearing, Saemus is picking another fight. “You won’t get away with this,” he says through his swollen face. “The Viscount will-”

“Your father is the one who sent me, brat,” Ginnis spits. “And if you want to go back to him without any more pieces missing, you’ll stay your tongue.”

There is a crack in Saemus’s expression, and not just his broken nose. The betrayal sets in, and he is quiet, slumping to his knees and leaving Ginnis to squint at something in the distance. You don’t really absorb what Ginnis said, too busy finishing the incantation along Ashaad’s throat. There, his breathing is steady now, a visible rise to his chest, but the effort has left you unable to sit or do much beside lay your head back down on the sand. What now? You could have the element of surprise if you wanted it, but you hardly think a counter-ambush is in the cards. You doubt you could even make a fireball the way you are now.

Useless you are. Can’t save yourself, can’t save your friends. What have you even been playing at all this time? Magic seems so hard and the ground seems so soft and you rest your forehead to the dirt-

There is fighting. Your eyes fly open to the sound of clashing swords, of Ginnis’s wailing croon over the cacophony. In a panic you twist your head until your sight lands on Saemus, who’s closer now, knelt with Ashaad’s head in his arms. Without thinking, you pull yourself toward them, throwing up a feeble barrier around the three of you as mercenaries jump to their feet. It’s just in time: two arrows plink against it, one after the other, the energy rippling in the air they impact the barrier.

Saemus glances around in panic, and you focus, hardening the barrier into an arcane shield. All you need to do is last, that’s all you need—you close your eyes again, wondering who is here that’s come to fight your battles. Various possibilities turn in your blood-loss-addled mind: Tal-Vashoth darting silver through the rocks, or the redwood forms of the Arishok’s people as they storm the peninsula. Once, you even imagine Isabela daringly coming to your rescue.

But when you wake (you don’t remember passing out again, but here you are, blearily looking up at the sky) it’s not the strong yet toned arms of a pirate queen you’re lying in. Instead, the edges of armor dig into your spine as Aveline holds you up by the shoulders.

“Guard Captain,” you slur. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Quiet Hawke,” she says, in a way that is not unkind, but still very, very clear she means it. This if further enforced when she shoves a potion into your mouth.

“I’ll handle the witty commentary from here,” Varric says as he rests the butt of Bianca in the sand and kneels beside you. The fighting is over: it’s clear by the number of guards milling about and all the dead mercenaries they’re hauling into a pile. “Disappointed in you Hawke. Here I thought we were family, and you’re off having adventures behind our backs?”

“Hmmmum humm hunna,” you complain around the neck of the bottle.

It’s not like you’d run off _alone_ after all-

You shoot up straight (rupturing the aches in your side in your haste) and you scan the area for Ashaad and Saemus. With relief, your eyes settle on them nestled in the clearing’s entryway, Saemus waving off a guard who keeps trying to tend to his nose. Ashaad still appears to be unconscious, but hey, better than dead.

Without meaning to, you catch yourself looking for Isabela among the passing faces. None share her swaying walk, her gold flecked smile. It’s the guards and Varric, come to haul you out of trouble by your breeches, stumbling through mud just like Father would when you were young.

“Not a terribly heroic tale,” you say when Aveline finally pulls the potion out of your mouth. (Like you weren’t feeling like a child already.) “Mind leaving this one out of that book you’re writing?”

“Are you kidding?” Varric scoffs. “This is gold! Every story needs a moment where the hero is outplayed , outmaneuvered, outclassed and still manages save themself and a few civilians in the end.”

“You may need to leave out the part where one of the civilians was a seven foot tall silver giant.”

“Hm. You’re right.” Varric looks around. “...Do you mind if I put in something about you escaping your bonds using only a hairpin and ten feet of hempen rope?”

Aveline stops holding you up just long enough to rub her temples. “Hawke...please don’t make a habit of this.”

You want to say _no promises_ , because that’s you, as carefree as a nug in a slop pile. But something stops you as you stare at your friends, the worry on Aveline’s face just as visible on Varric’s if you know where to look. So you let the thought go, place a hand on each of their shoulders, and grin. “Alright. At the very least I’ll bring you with me.”


End file.
